Bimbashi Baruk Of Egypt

by Sax Rohmer

  “We were spotted as we turned into the wadi,” Bimbashi Baruk replied. “You may take it for granted that we are expected.”

  The words were barely spoken before two groups of armed Arabs rose up out of the shadows, right and left of the precipitous entrance to this magic valley. Glancing back, Madden saw that the narrow pass behind had become filled with tribesmen; their escape was cut off. A tall, lean, black-bearded man detached himself from one of the groups and approached Bimbashi Baruk.

  “Who are you, O hadji,” he demanded, “and what do you seek in Zawia Kuftah?”

  “I am the Sheikh Mahdi Abdel Beyda,” the bimbashi replied calmly. “I seek rest, refreshment and the delightful conversation of my old friend, Sidi Selugi.”

  “So, you are a friend of the sheikh?”

  “As I have told you. Be good enough to show me the way to his tent.”

  All three groups of Arabs had now drawn in, so as to surround the camels. They watched, listened, but were silent. The lean, bearded man conferred in an undertone with another who was fat and of jovial appearance. Madden, who had a Shakespearean turn, mentally dubbed the pair Macbeth and Falstaff.

  “Sidi Selugi is away,” said Falstaff, “but,” he added, “Sidi Selugi will return tonight, beyond all doubt.”

  Apparently this was a witticism, for the hitherto silent onlookers laughed loudly; only Macbeth scowled.

  “I will await his return,” replied Bimbashi Baruk.

  The lean man and the fat conferred again, and presently, with an escort of armed Arabs, colorfully reinforced by excited women, sheep, goats and small brown children, the camels proceeded slowly. They passed through the camp, or town of tents, along paths dissecting cultivated land, and came to a halt beneath a sort of bastion of the embracing cliff. Some twenty feet up yawned the entrance to a cave. A ladder of rope with treads of palm wood was looped to a ring above the cave; it could be released by means of a running line. This being accomplished, the bearded man invited Bimbashi Baruk to dismount.

  “In the spacious apartment above, O hadji,” he explained, “it is our custom to accommodate distinguished guests. Some of our people—I confess it —are avaricious, and Sidi Selugi is jealous of the good name of Zawia Kuftah. Your possessions shall be carried up, and here you may rest in safety. Refreshments will be brought to you, and Sidi Selugi be duly informed.”

  These were the circumstances which led to the arrival of Bimbashi Baruk in the Hidden Oasis and to the remarkable discovery which he made there.

  The cave was of considerable size and had been artificially and roughly squared at some remote time. There were remains of crude mural decorations at one point.

  “Probably an ancient rock tomb,” remarked Madden. “I think less than nothing about being a distinguished guest—or the servant of one. As someone has thoughtfully hauled the ladder up to the ring, and as we can't reach the line, if there's any difference between being a distinguished guest and a prisoner it must have escaped me.”

  “The fellow with the black beard is uncertain about us,” replied the bimbashi. “He is evidently Sidi Selugi's lieutenant.”

  “Yes, I distrust Macbeth. In short, we are likely to have our throats cut?”

  Bimbashi Baruk, safe from observation, began to fill a pipe which had been concealed among the baggage. The best time of a desert day was approaching; and the sun, low behind the great line of cliffs, created a delicate pink glow which bathed all the valley and cast monstrous shadows right across to the palm groves.

  “I had to risk it, Pop. You see what has happened? Margaret Starkie has fallen into the wrong hands. She must have been picked up by a patrol of Sidi Selugi's Arabs.”

  “You think she is here?”

  “Can you doubt it?”

  “But do these fellows scout in cars? If not, how do you account for the tire marks?”

  “I am quite unable to account for them. But short of walking into the lion's den, I could think of no way of learning what had become of the missing woman.” Bimbashi Baruk walked to the entrance and looked out over Zawia Kuftah, beautiful beneath its luminous pink veiling. “I confess that I had not anticipated being isolated in this way. Let me have the field glasses, Pop.”

  He made a careful inspection of every building in sight, and of those who came out of, or went into, each; but he observed nothing of importance until his attention became focused upon the large tent upon a mound. A subdued “Ha!” told Madden that the bimbashi at last had observed something significant.

  “What have you spotted?”

  Bimbashi Baruk lowered the glasses. “There is an armed guard around Sidi Selugi's tent. She is held prisoner there. No doubt he hopes to get a big ransom from the PhiladelphiaGlobe.”

  “And what, may I ask, dowe hope to do?”

  The bimbashi relighted his pipe, which had gone out during his inspection. “Our best chance is to frighten Sidi Selugi. He knows as well as we do that the Allies will clean up this territory sooner or later. I shall tell him that Margaret's presence here is known and that I have been sent to bring her back. How we are going to get her back is a problem we can tackle later.”

  “If we live to tackle it.”

  “Sidi Selugi would never raise his hand against me.

  “But he might sell you out to Rommel.”

  “I agree. I shall nip that plan in the bud.”

  “How?”

  “By selling out Sidi Selugi to the gentleman you call Macbeth. He is already uneasy about the affair. Think of his behavior when the others laughed. Get Macbeth on our side, and Sidi Selugi will be easy money.”

  A man who squatted on the ground below the cave was summoned, and sent with a message to the bearded one. That luminous veil which wrapped the valley began to assume magical tones of violet as sunset drew near.

  The reaction of Sidi Selugi's lieutenant was pleasantly dramatic. He swore by the beard of the Prophet that he had warned his chief of the dire consequences of holding an American woman captive. Although he had not met Bimbashi Baruk hitherto, he knew him to be a friend of Sidi Selugi and gave immediate orders to the effect that all Zawia Kuftah, its sheep and herds, its groves and meadows, its wine, its women and its song, were to be at the bimbashi's disposal. Their lofty but somewhat dismal quarters were exchanged in favor of a commodious tent—one immediately adjoining that of the sheikh. A second procession escorted them, and certain elements, chiefly goats, took up temporary residence inside. Soon a prong of the jagged shadow cast by the cliff reached out, like a giant tooth, and claimed their tent.

  “Well,” said Madden, staring up the slope of the mound, a purple mass against a bewilderingly beautiful background, “we have burned our boats. Your celebrated eloquence, B.B., alone stands between us and the wrath of Sidi Selugi, when he comes back.”

  Bimbashi Baruk was silent for a while. “Somehow,” he replied, “we must get in touch with Margaret before Sidi Selugi's return.”

  Now, an Arab tent such as that which they occupied is long, low, brightly carpeted but otherwise unfurnished, and divided into two parts by striped rugs hung across the middle. As the bimbashi spoke, this dividing curtain was drawn aside, and a voice said, “Ssh! Don't move, please, Major. I mustn't be discovered.”

  Madden, who was seated on a pile of carpets, visibly stiffened. Bimbashi Baruk, who stood near, made no perceptible movement.

  “This is a delightful surprise,” he murmured.

  “Allow me to present Captain the Honorable J. Popham Madden—Miss Margaret Starkie.”

  “No need to get up and bow,” the voice went on; but Madden, stifling a pretended yawn, turned aside and looked into the violet dusk behind him.

  He saw an Oriental figure, richly bedecked, bangles glittering on strangely white arms: a veil, thrown back, which framed a shadowy face crowned by flaming hair.

  “It was just too sweet of you, Major,” Margaret Starkie went on, “to take up the trail. I don't believe there's another man in Africa could have found me.” He
r voice was richly contralto, caressing. “I have missed the Rommel story but found another one that may be as big. Warn me if anyone comes near. It happened like this.”

  Her escape, by camel, from the bimbashi's post, had been managed without Challoner's connivance—for which piece of news the bimbashi was grateful—and had enabled Margaret Starkie to penetrate some ten miles into enemy territory before daylight came and revealed her presence to one Captain von Hast, who, accompanied by two men and a driver, was out on an early morning reconnaissance.

  The German officer accepted Margaret's assurance that she regarded General Rommel as the greatest living commander and volunteered to escort her to the General's headquarters. One man was left behind to bring in the camel, and Margaret went on by car. In order that they might avoid meeting troops, Captain von Hast followed the less-frequented route later pursued by Bimbashi Baruk: he behaved throughout with exemplary courtesy. At a point which the bimbashi and Madden recognized from the description, a huge piece of rock blocked the road. An old Arab who stood beside it explained that it had fallen down the slope during the night. He undertook to lead Captain von Hast to a camp where assistance could be obtained to clear the obstruction. The captain and one man set out. They did not return. Left alone with the driver—she said that his teeth were chattering—Margaret looked back....

  “Right then I spilled the hairpins. I don't know if you found them. I knew what a fool I had been. The path behind was full of armed Arabs!”

  With the nose of a rifle prodding his back, the driver proceeded, swinging left. They passed a place where a thorn bush overhung the narrow path.

  “I had cut off two tresses—to use as clues—for my hair is pretty noticeable,” said Margaret; “and I hung one on the bush while I was pretending to clear it away from my head. Maybe you found that one?”

  “How could I miss it?” murmured Bimbashi Baruk.

  “Don't ask me what became of Captain yon Hast and the others, because I don't know. But I was taken right from the car to a tent where Sidi Selugi was waiting. You know him, and so I need not say that he is everything a sheikh is supposed to be in Hollywood. It seems he had received information when the Germans picked me up. He knew nothing of my plans; so he just went right out to rescue me. That was seven days back.”

  “One up for Sidi Selugi,” said Madden. “The next problem is, how do we get you back from here?”

  “You don't have to,” replied Margaret softly.

  The tone, almost purring, in which the words were spoken, reduced both men to thoughtful silence.

  “At first,” she went on, “I was fighting mad— and I don't mind admitting I didn't fancy my chances. If Sidi Selugi hadn't been a perfect Arab gentleman, it's likely this story would have had a different ending. Fortunately, I speak good Arabic, as you know, Major, and I have studied the Moslem religion. Just take a peep, now, if nobody is looking.”

  Bimbashi Baruk turned and stared at the barbaric, red-headed vision. “You are dressed as a bride.”

  “Tonight I become a bride. Sidi Selugi is a hundred per cent real, and he divorced his other wife three days back—when I embraced Islam.”

  “When you did what?” inquired Madden in a hushed voice.

  “When I became a Mohammedan. Why shouldn't I? They all teach the same thing. There's a kind of local preacher in the town, but I stood out for a regular wedding. Sidi Selugi has gone to get a proper, certified imam, and he promised to be back by nightfall. Now, a thousand thanks. I know you have risked your lives to find me, and I shall be grateful and proud to my dying day. I have to slip back before I'm missed. Goodbye, and God bless you.”

  And the faint swish of a falling carpet told Bimbashi Baruk that Margaret Starkie had returned to pursue her latest—and maddest, adventure.

  10. Pool-o'-the-Moon Sees Bimbashi Baruk

  NOT THE LEAST remarkable adventure of Bimbashi Baruk was that of the Grand Imam of Khorassan. It began shortly after his return to Egypt from that quest of Margaret Starkie which ended in so singular a meeting; and almost certainly he would have declined the assignment if Colonel Roden-Pyne had not mentioned Yasmina, daughter of the Sheikh Ismail ed-Din.

  “This Scotland Yard business is getting me down,” the bimbashi declared. “A tank can never be a camel, so there's no reason why a Camel Corps commander should become a copper.” He fondled the hot bowl of his pipe, staring dreamily across a somewhat naked office at the Cairo Chief of Intelligence. “Whois the Grand Imam of Khorassan, anyway?”

  Colonel Roden-Pyne bared large teeth. It was that officer's exclusive rendering of a smile, but it reminded the bimbashi of a horse which scents its oats.

  “Thought he'd intrigue you. He's just an ordinary imam, or parish priest, from a mosque in Kashan, on the Khorassan frontier, but it seems he thinks he has a Mission.” Colonel Roden-Pyne pronounced the word with a capital M. “As a result, Rosener, of the Nazi Intelligence staff, has got hold of him. One must hand it to 'em, B.B. These Germans are unbending in their purpose, such as it is.”

  “Yes, the Nazi machine is made of cast iron. It doesn't bend; it snaps.”

  “Quite. I agree. But at any rate, this blighter is working slowly west, preaching red-hot sedition: a Holy War, nothing less. He's making converts, too. Highly inconvenient for us, at the moment.”

  “One of those crazy fanatics. Can't you hire somebody to shoot him?”

  “Not done, B.B. Best way, I grant you. No, he's just got to be stopped. We laid a trap for him on the border, but he slipped through.”

  “How do you propose to stop him? Send a missionary along to convert the man?”

  Colonel Roden-Pyne tapped his prominent teeth with a pencil.

  “I had a brighter idea than that. I sent Pop Madden across some time ago to give this bloke the once-over.”

  “Good old Pop. 'Abdul the Camel Dealer.' Haven't they got him sized up yet?”

  “No. He still gets away with it. He's damned clever, B.B.”

  Before Bimbashi Baruk there arose a mental image of Captain the Hon. J. Popham Madden, small, wiry but chubby-faced, wearing a rusty beard and a greasy turban and exuding an unavoidable odor of camel. Pop Madden, who could speak most of the dialects heard from Jordan to Oxus, whose contacts ranged from shady sheikhs to lurid ladies: good old Pop.

  “What had Pop to say on the subject?”

  “He confirmed the report of A 14 to the hilt.”

  “A 14?”

  “Yes—the best agent we have north of Cairo; otherwise your little friend Yasmina ed-Din, who is known, I am told, as Rose of the Lebanon.”

  Colonel Roden-Pyne shot a quick glance at Bimbashi Baruk, stood up, smiled slyly aside like a horse about to kick, and stamped his feet. But the bimbashi did not acknowledge a hit; his blue eyes, a paradox in that chiseled Arab face, remained contemplative. He began to refill his briar.

  “Things have been happening while I was away.”

  “Things have. A 14, the source of whose information remains a mystery, put us onto this new scheme right at the beginning. Inquiries established an unmistakable link with the Nazis, and I was told to sit up and take notice. That was when I sent Madden off. It seems that the imam is a tough nut to crack. He does his howling under cover—in mosques and in the houses of sympathizers; so that direct action is difficult. It would be dangerous, too. His followers pretend to look upon him as a sort of evangelist. As I need not tell you, Islam is solidly with us against the Germans. Freaks like this fellow no more reflect upon the Moslems than the Oxford Movement reflects on the Church of England. Those who listen to him are either disaffected, slightly cracked, or they are ambitious crooks. Every creed at one time or another has served as a cloak for such.”

  Bimbashi Baruk replaced his pouch and struck a match.

  “Does he travel with much of a bodyguard?”

  “None at all, according to Madden. He evidently considers himself safe from interference. His papers, issued in Teheran, describe him as a missionary preacher
, and are in order. He started out from Kashan on a donkey, in good old Biblical style, but Madden reports that he has now acquired a camel and also a katib, or tame scribe of sorts. Evidently Pop thinks he is pretty hot. I received this, by one of our underground messengers, only yesterday.”

  He passed across the desk a typewritten sheet, many of the words running into one another, by which mannerism the bimbashi knew this to be a transcription made by the colonel personally. He skimmed lightly over the opening paragraphs and came to the following:

  “The self-styled Grand Imam is a big, bearded brute, as poisonous as the black scorpions which make his native town so popular. His sermons, or speeches, are the kind of flatulent flapdoodle (laced with Arab and Persian stingo) which Hitler serves out to his customers. He speaks both languages as well as I do but in other respects he is an ignorant animal. Quite devoid of meaning, his patter acts on some poor clowns like hashish. What his stuff lacks of logic is made up for in volume. As a shouting solo it's not negligible.”

  Madden's report went on to say that the imam received extensive hospitality from political opportunists and was making disciples of a kind. Then came:

  “He plans to cross into Irak and Syria. I have a hazy scheme and have succeeded in convincing him that I am a rabid Nazi as well as a devout Believer. But I cannot carry on lone-handed. If B.B. could join me at Kermanshah I believe we might make a job of the imam.”

  Bimbashi Baruk looked up.

  “You know, B.B.,” said Colonel Roden-Pyne, “we can't have this Mad Mullah roaring into our territory just now. He simply must be stopped.”

  “Yes,” murmured the bimbashi thoughtfully. A vision of Yasmina had come to haunt him. “What do you suggest?”

  YASMINA SAT before the desk in her garden studio. The demesne was guarded by a high and ancient wall, so that inhabitants of el-Kasr, the town below, might not obtain so much as a glimpse of the household of Ismail ed-Din. Bright sunlight poured in at windows and through an open door, for it was only in spring and summer that the old walnut tree brushed one side of the kiosk with its shadow. A delicate water color lay on a table, the paper still wet; it was of golden carp among browning leaves and had been painted in the rock garden outside. On a bench were several unfinished plaques of inland woods, semiprecious stones and mother-of-pearl. Implements and little brass trays of materials lay near. A pair of doves strutted about on the paved steps hunting for grains of corn which Yasmina had thrown down. She had quite forgotten their existence, however, as she pored over the pages of a book printed in Arabic, from time to time writing a word in a manuscript. She wore white overalls decorated with smears of paint, but this workaday garb could not disguise her slenderly shapely figure, for Yasmina, Pool-o'-the-Moon (called Rose of the Lebanon), was lovely as she was clever.